First to Fail: A Strictly Professional Romance (Unraveled Book 3) Read online

  What did my sexy assassin really look like? If she was as stunning as her personality, I was a goner.

  A group of teenagers walked by and Natalia inspected them, her eyes narrowed. A moment later she dismissed them like she hadn’t recognized any of the kids.

  She ate with her mask in place. Natalia No Last Name. But I couldn’t fault her for not opening up to me and giving me free access to her life story like the top flap of a comic book. I had taught Jaycee not to give away all her personal details to the first guy who showed a little interest.

  Our meal was over too soon, and I had to get back to work. I grabbed our wrappers and took them to a garbage can. When I turned, she was right behind me. We walked back to the entrance to the convention hall.

  “When can I see you again?” I asked as soon as we got inside.

  Just then, the doorways to two conference rooms opened and people with robes and capes—and the occasional plain street clothes—flooded out. I hooked Natalia’s arm and pulled her around the corner. The bathrooms were in the opposite direction, making this part of the conference center relatively private.

  I stopped to face her but looked over her shoulder to see if we were going to get interrupted. Foot traffic was going in a different direction and we were mostly isolated. I looked back at her. Her lips parted as she gazed up at me.

  I had one question—what’s your phone number?—but I couldn’t ask it. I wasn’t worried about calling her when I had her in my arms.

  Her eyes were hooded and she leaned closer. I closed the gap, drawn to her like a magnet I was helpless to resist, and dropped my lips onto hers.

  A soft gasp escaped her, but she rose to her tiptoes, her hands coming around my shoulders for support. Winding my arms around her tight waist, I marveled once again over how well her outfit encased her body. I could feel every inch of her, but she was fully clothed. The warm fabric was smooth under my hands, allowing me to enjoy the solid curves of her body.

  I deepened the kiss, and she opened for me. A strong, take charge woman like this let me lead? I’d take every inch she allowed me, and I’d make sure we weren’t interrupted. I backed us toward the cove outside of an unused conference room for extra privacy. With each step, her breasts rubbed through my shirt, the quality material not strong enough to suppress her peaked nipples.

  Her tongue twined with mine, soft, hot, and needy. Blood left my head to pump to my groin until the fly of my jeans dug into my flesh. Natalia’s warm body against mine, a subtle undulation against my erection, I was done. I gripped her ass and squeezed. What would this be like if we were naked? If just kissing her was this lust inducing, what would sleeping with her be like?

  She rocked against me, her pelvis stroking my erection. We were both having the same fantasy of being alone together and sans costume. I wedged a knee between her legs, and she didn’t hesitate. She ground against my thigh like it was her job and I was flinging fifties.

  I took the kiss deeper, timing my tongue with her movements and massaging her ass with my hands as her butt flexed and relaxed against my palms.

  A moan escaped me, mingling with her heavier breaths. My only mission in life was to get her to come. Smashed together, feeling every inch of her body, it wasn’t enough. I wanted her falling apart in my arms.

  Loud voices and rowdy laughter approached.

  She pulled back, a gasp ripping from her throat, and stumbled out of my arms. Lifting her hand to touch her kiss-swollen lips, she shook her head. “I’m…I should be…I don’t usually move this fast. I’m new in town, and jumping into some guy’s arms…”

  The dismay etched on her face cleaved through my lust. We just met, but this wasn’t some fling to me. There’s more to me and Natalia. I know it. “I’d like to be more than some guy. Are you free next weekend?” I didn’t even know what she looked like, but I enjoyed her passion, and she was easy to talk to. Under that black wig and those dark contacts, Natalia outshone Valaria.

  “I—” She adjusted her wig and scowled. Had it dawned on her, too, that I didn’t know what she really looked like? Will that make it seem less significant to her? “I’m not ready to date. I just moved here and my job…”

  I held my hands up. Her nerves were coiling tighter, her tension was almost palpable. “No pressure. We can exchange numbers and when you’re free maybe we can grab supper or hit up a movie?”

  I’d almost lost her until I said movie. Her eyes lit up. “I like movies.” Her expression fell. “I left my phone in the car rather than have the outline of a rectangle on my ass.”

  The whole time I’d been feeling her up in that suit, I hadn’t felt a phone. “Valaria doesn’t have a friends-and-family account, huh?”

  She chuckled. “No.”

  The reminder of her ass in that costume threatened to send more blood to my fading erection. She rattled off her number and I triple-checked it was stored before we walked back to the showroom floor.

  I couldn’t wait to see her again.

  Chapter 2

  Natalia

  “Ms. Shaw?”

  I looked up from my computer screen, schedules and change requests still emblazoned across my eyes. My young assistant’s voice was hesitant, like she worried I would send her packing for the interruption.

  I’d only done that to an assistant once during my first position after graduate school. Maybe twice. Being taken seriously as the principal of a private school when I’d just turned thirty and had little teaching experience wasn’t easy. I stuck to being a hard-ass. The reputation stuck with me through to this position and I need to live up to it. Being brought on board to keep one of my father’s schools from sinking was about stopping the abuse of power that had been dragging the school down, not being tough for no reason. I always had a valid reason.

  “What is it, Ms. Branson?” I pushed away from the desk. My assistant was nearly as new as I was. I had only arrived at the beginning of the month, but Ms. Branson had started a month earlier when the new school year had begun. I had kept her on because Ms. Branson had just turned in her resumé, disgusted with the atrocious behavior of the last principal. With at least one person in my corner, maybe I could save this ship from getting toppled by the next wave of parental outrage.

  Just like I’d done at the previous school I’d fixed.

  “The history teacher brought down a freshman. The girl was late for class all last week and Mr. Budinsky has had enough.” Ms. Branson looked behind her, then stepped into the room, holding the door almost completely closed. “He’s also tried disciplining her for abusing the use of his name.”

  Budinsky. I could imagine all the ways a teenage mind would twist that.

  “Give me a few minutes. I’ll let you know when to send her in.” The girl’s tardiness wasn’t the major concern. It was what had caused her to arrive late to class. Again with the teenage mind.

  I logged into the security footage. The cameras had been in disrepair, but they were one of the first things I had gotten fixed when I accepted the position of principal. The former principal had been sleeping with the head of the finance department and they’d redirected funds. Some had been embezzled, the rest diverted to bulk up the football team and purchase a new bus. Never mind that the library had one DVD player to check out and it was the first DVD player most of the school’s students had ever seen.

  Assuming the student was in the current period, I reviewed the security footage of the minutes before and after Mr. Budinsky’s class started. It was only Monday and tardiness looked to be on the schedule for this week. The grainy footage of a girl sauntering up to the closed door, shooting a shit-eating grin over her shoulder, was clear enough. The student wore a khaki skirt, which wasn’t popular with the girls. Most preferred pants, since leggings went against the dress code.

  Preston Academy had a uniform dress code. Navy blue or khaki pants or skirts. Red, navy, or white polo shirts could be paired with them.

  I punched into another camera’s feed. A boy lingered
in front of a storage closet. I narrowed my eyes. I’d never been in that particular closet, but I’d bet my father’s new Audi that it had enough room for two kids to get handsy, especially if one of those kids wore a skirt.

  “Not on my watch,” I muttered. I sent Ms. Branson a message to send the student in. I also listed the camera and minutes for Ms. Branson to determine the identity of the boy.

  Seconds later, my office door opened, and the girl slipped inside. Her light brown hair hung loose over wiry shoulders. Her light brown eyes were a rebellious mix of do your worst and I don’t care. I might be deluding myself, but I thought I also saw a little oh shit, what have I gotten myself into?

  I hoped the girl felt that way. It gave me a little hope that I could work with the student’s behavior.

  “Ms. Shaw.” The girl sat primly in a chair on the other side of my desk. She looked around the office.

  Yep, it was bare. I had spent the first week packing the former principal’s trophies in a box. Then I’d loaded all the outdated textbooks and taken the haul to the end of the drive that led to Preston Academy. The old employee—or his mistress, who no longer worked at Preston Academy either—could come pick up his belongings as long as they didn’t step foot on campus.

  As for my decorating efforts, I’d find appropriate decor. My preferences had to go out the window. Movie posters and pop culture art were not appropriate for the head of a private school. I could just imagine the president of the school board wandering in and questioning his hiring choice.

  I’d never been able to openly display the few knickknacks I’d collected over the years or the purchases I’d made at cons. But I’d been deliciously distracted from buying anything at the Twin Cities Comic Con.

  I couldn’t think about him now—or ever. I had no time for dating. Once my stint at Preston was done, I was off to fix the next academy. Because that’s who I was: a fixer. To take my mind off my make-out session, I concentrated on the task at hand.

  “Jaycee, why were you late for history?” I preferred to be direct. I wasn’t these kids’ BFF, and I wasn’t going to act like it. It was my job to make sure they got a quality education while building respectable character. Chitchat didn’t always fit into the equation.

  “It takes too long to get from my locker to the classroom.”

  Some days it was hard not to say bullshit out loud. Preston Academy was a university prep school that was small enough to be all in one building. Built sixty years ago, it was solid brick like it belonged on a prestigious college campus, and only one addition had been added over the years. My grandfather’s vision had never been to grow so large they needed to keep adding on. He insisted on quality over quantity. Until my father had taken over. It had cost me a ton of friendships and any popularity whatsoever because of all the moving. He’d gone on to build five more similarly sized campuses all over the country. Rich people wanted superior education for their kids and the more limited it was, the more prestigious it felt.

  A message popped up on my screen. I read it, my heart sinking to my Captain America–decaled toenails. “Who’s Dresden Wentworth?”

  My heart thumped in time with the flare of Jaycee’s eyes. Yes, I know who you’ve been making out with. Unfortunately, my time going through records after starting this job also meant I knew the Wentworths were one of the biggest benefactors of the school.

  The downfall of many private schools: those who gifted their money thought it came with strings attached. Look, I just wrote a check for a hundred thousand and we need a quarterback with a solid arm. I just happen to know a student we can recruit for a full ride.

  I couldn’t blame them. The sums paid for tuition and that were donated outright were staggering. But balance was needed between academics and extracurricular activities and that wasn’t always appreciated. Retaining quality staff meant spending money on them, and some of their donors didn’t understand the correlation.

  “Dresden’s a friend.” Jaycee’s gaze flicked away. “Why are you bringing him up?”

  “He’s a friend you’ve been late to history for. And it’s something I need to inform your parents about.” I glanced at the new message on my screen.

  Jaycee lived with only one parent, her father. Her mother was listed as an emergency contact only.

  I slid my gaze back to the girl. Issues at home then. Mom was out of the picture and Dad was either too strict or his little angel did no wrong.

  Jaycee scowled at the top of my desk. “Do what ya gotta do.”

  Oh, I would. “Why do you call Mr. Budinsky names?”

  The girl snorted. “Because he refuses to use my proper name. Until he does, I’m not using his proper name.”

  “What wrong name is he using?”

  Jaycee gathered her hair and draped it down her back. What I wouldn’t give to wear my hair down someday. But as the daughter of the man in charge of all six Preston Academies, I had to look as professional as humanly possible. Sharp suits, bound hair, and, when the occasion called for a little more flair, dark-rimmed glasses. I wore little makeup besides a brush or two of mascara and clear lip gloss. Dying my hair wasn’t an option, thanks to the dress code, but I’d accumulated quite an assortment of wigs for my cosplay.

  “He keeps calling me Ms. Halliwell when it should be Ms. Richards.”

  Richards? I glanced at the computer again. Ah. The mother’s name.

  “What’s your legal name?” It had to be Halliwell. The school required legal names, not first preferences and not nicknames.

  “Well,” Jaycee fisted the cuffs of her long-sleeved emerald shirt, “Halliwell is on my birth certificate, but I went by Richards for years until…” Her gaze slid to the ceiling, then bounced to the wall. And there it was. The pain that made Jaycee act out. Textbook.

  “Until you moved in with your father?”

  Jaycee nodded but didn’t meet my gaze.

  “How are things going, living with him?”

  “Fine. He’s around a lot now. Like, all the time.”

  “He never used to be?” Half of my job called for being a counselor. Preston Academy had one on staff, but I wanted to learn about Jaycee before I shuffled the girl’s case off.

  Jaycee crossed her legs. One or both of her parents must be tall. I had topped out at five foot five. My mother was two inches shorter and my father three inches taller. But I’d learned from both of them how to walk with swagger and an air of entitlement.

  “No. Dad used to be a suit guy. Long hours, killer pay. But when he got me, he quit to be home more. Now he works at…” Her gaze cut away. “When’s he gonna be here?”

  “In a few moments. Would you rather wait with Ms. Branson?” That’d give me some time to watch more footage and read Mr. Budinsky’s entire report.

  The girl sauntered out, her shoulders rounded in and her steps not as cocky as when she’d entered.

  Was there trouble at home or unresolved issues with her mom’s absence?

  Several minutes ticked by. I scanned each day of the previous week. It was a daily occurrence. A quick disappearance into the closet until five minutes past the bell. Jaycee would creep out first and then Dresden would strut out like he didn’t have a care in the world.

  So why hadn’t he been sent to my office? I looked up his schedule. My stomach sank.

  If I were a superhero swooping in to save the school, Dresden’s fifth-period teacher would be my nemesis. An evil villain who also happened to be the athletics director: Sam Samuelson. Coach Sammie, beloved by all the check-writing, former-jock parents.

  “Fuck me,” I muttered and jumped in my seat when someone rapped on the door. “Yes?”

  Ms. Branson peeked in. “Mr. Halliwell is here. Would you like me to send them both in?”

  “Just Mr. Halliwell first.” It’d give me a chance to gauge his reaction. Sometimes parents talked more openly when their kids weren’t around.

  Ms. Branson stepped inside, and I rose to greet Mr. Halliwell. I was stepping around my de
sk when he cleared the doorway. I stopped short and my thigh bumped the edge of the desk. Pain shot through my leg, but I gritted my teeth against a curse word.

  The man I had twined myself around not two days ago at the comic con had just entered my office.

  Chris was Mr. Halliwell? He was dressed nearly identically to when I’d met him. There was no denying he was the same person I’d dry humped.

  I’d made out with a student’s parent?

  Mortification swept through me. The one time I’d lowered my guard, and I’d committed professional suicide. I’d come here as the ballbuster to knock the place back into shape. If those who resisted my efforts found out I had a personal relationship with a student’s father, they would double down to undermine me.

  He smiled, that easy grin I’d dreamed about each night since the convention, but it was filled with tension. “Hello, Ms. Shaw.”

  He didn’t recognize me. Gone was the black wig, leaving my shoulder-length honey brown hair wound tightly in a bun. Gone were my contacts. He wouldn’t have been able to tell my eyes were hazel, more on the brown side than green, under the contacts. And thanks to my father’s dental plan, I didn’t have chipped teeth, gaps, a gold cap, or any other identifiable feature in my mouth.

  Had I evaded social destruction? “Hello, Ch—Mr. Halliwell.” I stomped around the desk to give him a firm handshake, trying to forget his hands had been on my ass, squeezing and rubbing. I gestured to the seat Jaycee had vacated and scurried back to my own.

  He glanced around the office. It was what everyone did when they first sat down. Of course, his gaze landed on the single prism I’d set on the shelf. It was the shape of Superman’s emblem, but when I turned it a certain way, no one could tell. It was the one geeky adornment I allowed myself. If anyone mentioned it, I could fake ignorance.

  “Okay, Mr. Halliwell, let me get to the point of why we called you here.” I gave him the rundown of Jaycee’s tardiness, made him aware of her last-name angst, and outlined the consequences.